Disclaimer: JKR owns. I only play. You do not sue.
Length: 670 words
Summary: Somebody set up us the magical explosion.
Note: Originally written for a contest at hogsmeade_elite. First place winner.
Concrit: Always welcome and appreciated.
In AD 1997, war was beginning.
Or, rather, it was continuing, but such mundane details are inconsequential in epic tales of bravery and adventure.
There was a crash outside the doors of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, and Harry Potter sat up in his armchair, where he'd been dozing. What they don't tell you in the history books is that war is terribly boring business, filled with waiting, endless games of Exploding Snap and really, really vile food. Like tinned beans and pre-sliced bread.
Another crash rocked the walls of the house. "What happen?" asked Harry, looking around himself wildly.
Ron, who had been standing by the window, turned to Harry with a dark look on his freckled face.
"Somebody set up us the magical explosion," he said after a significant pause.
"We get signal!" shouted Hermione, running into the drawing room with a Pensieve cradled in her arms.
Harry swivelled his head to gape at her. "What!"
Hermione ignored him and placed the Pensieve on the low, bow-legged coffee table, waving her wand furiously above it.
"Main Pensieve turn on," she said.
The silvery contents of the Pensieve swirled and rippled, turning almost black before a dark shape began to rise from the surface. It was a man's shape, but the features were obscured as he was wearing a thick cloak -- and besides, it was a Pensieve memory
"I think I saw this in a movie once," said Harry, frowning. "Obi-Wan?" he asked the Pensieve shape uncertainly.
The shape cackled gleefully and threw its hood off. For the next moment, all Harry could see was a flat, snakelike face with those red eyes staring at him. His scar didn't hurt, but that was probably because it was a Pensieve memory. Signal. Whatever. The point was that it wasn't actually Voldemort.
"It's you!!" said Harry, drawing his wand.
Voldemort's red eyes gleamed with mirth. Couldn't this guy do something better with this time than go after Harry? Something like, oh, INVENT CONTACT LENSES OR WHATEVER? Harry shook his head and trained his wand on Voldemort. This was not the time for idle reflection, no sir.
"How are you gentlemen!!" said Voldemort in his high, cold voice.
"Excuse me?" spluttered Hermione, but Ron shushed her.
"I think he might've been spying when we were -- you know, and you were Polyjuiced into -- you know," he whispered.
"That one's definitely for the Too Much Information Department, guys," said Harry mildly.
Hermione appeared confused. "What are you talking about, Harry? There's no such department at the Ministry of Magic--"
"It's just an expression, Hermione," said Harry.
Voldemort cleared his throat, and the three friends looked back at him, vaguely irritated. Could he not see they were discussing matters of international importance?
"All your Grimmauld Place are belong to us," said Voldemort importantly. "You are on the way to destruction."
"What you say!!" exclaimed Harry.
"You have no chance to survive make your time," said Voldemort and disappeared from the surface of the Pensieve in a puff of smoke.
Harry thought he could hear him laughing but then he realised that the laughter was coming from outside the window! Harry ran to the window, shoving Ron aside roughly.
Indeed, Voldemort was standing in the garden of the house, looking up at the window with his red eyes. Laughing. Bastard.
"Ha Ha Ha," said Voldemort.
"Harry!!" cried Hermione.
Harry ignored her, looking at Ron. "Take off every 'rock'!!" he said. "You know what you doing."
Ron nodded feverishly and ran off to pull the lever that controlled an enormous container filled with rocks that Grawp brought from someplace called 'the valley of Mordor'.
"Move 'rock'," said Harry grandly, thrusting one of his hands up towards the ceiling. Ron pulled the lever.
Rocks fell. Everyone died. Well, all the bad guys, anyway.
"For great justice," said Harry, making an elaborate show of dusting off his hands. The war was over, and he was really looking forward to a nice steak dinner. Fuck beans on toast!